


through blood and silence

by JasperIsAFanboy



Category: Ravenous (1999)
Genre: Blood, Blood Drinking, Cannibalism, Canon Rewrite, Dubious Consent, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, in the sense that this isnt what happens in the original scene, this prob counts as
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:35:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22167223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JasperIsAFanboy/pseuds/JasperIsAFanboy
Summary: sometimes temptation is just too much.
Relationships: John Boyd/Ives
Comments: 3
Kudos: 38





	through blood and silence

**Author's Note:**

> u know what lads, sometimes u just gotta take a scene in a movie thats already pretty gay and make it even gayer. title from 'unwed henry' by american murder song.

“…You’re feeling it right now.”

God help him, but John was. His world narrowed to the gleam of the moonlight on Ives’ blood as it spilled down his wrist, to its copper and iron scent, to the _sheer need_ claiming every part of him in an iron grip. John’s breath turned shaky. God, he wanted it. His every cell begged for it, each throb of his leg intensifying the desire and the desire in turn intensifying the pain. Relief was _so close_ , right in front of his eyes. All he had to do was reach out and take it. He just needed a taste, just the slightest hint of blood… he took a stumbling step forward. Jagged shards of pain lanced through his leg, and the need for Ives’ blood sharpened to a degree painful in its own right.

His hand trembled as he reached out. He half expected Ives to pull his hand away, to taunt him again, but Ives let him come closer.

“Yes, that’s it,” Ives murmured. “Go on, Boyd.”

Some part of John’s mind was screaming in horror, trying to force him back that he might retain what humanity he still had left, but the pain and the need screamed louder. They were a deafening chorus, driving him towards Ives and the relief he offered. He grasped Ives’ wrist in both hands, conscious only of the smell of his blood. He touched his tongue to Ives’ palm, dragged the tip through the blood and across the gash. His breath left his lungs at the electrifying, aching pleasure of the taste of Ives’ blood. He latched on, clutching Ives’ palm practically against his face, closing his lips around the wound, pushing the tip of his tongue against Ives’ split flesh. Ives groaned, half in pain and half in pleasure by the sound.

“Yes, Boyd,” he said. “Good. Just like that.”

John scarcely heard him, rapt with the sweet relief of blood against his tongue, hot and slick, filling his senses with its taste and its smell and the feel of it in his mouth. The horror of what he was consuming failed to register in his mind. All he could think about was the blessed, blessed retreat of pain for the first time in weeks, the easing of a craving he’d been denying for months. _At last_ , he thought, _at last, at last, at last._ He probed the tip of his tongue along the length of the gash, feeling tendons and ligaments and soft rubbery veins moving under his tongue, the severed vessels flooding warm against his tongue. Ives let out a sound somewhere between a moan and a whimper. John closed his mouth around the gash again, sucked like an infant at the breast, eyelids fluttering as more blood spilled down his throat. Dimly he realized Ives’ free hand was in his hair, stroking and petting and holding him close.

“Oh, Boyd,” he breathed, “just look at you now.”

Ives pressed the length of him, his face tucked to the crook of his neck, breath hot against John’s throat. His hand left John’s hair to clutch at his hip, fingers rhythmically clenching and unclenching in time to the beating of his heart, to each fresh jet of his blood against John’s tongue. John could feel he was hard, hot against his hip, and unthinkingly John’s hips shuddered forward to press his own erection against Ives’. Ives moaned and tore his hand from John’s mouth. Before he could lament its loss, Ives was kissing him as though trying to steal the breath from his lungs, his other hand back in his hair and his injured one pressed to the small of John’s back. John didn’t even try to fight, just wrapped his arms around Ives and kissed back, losing the taste of Ives’ blood to the taste of Ives’ mouth, whiskey and cigar smoke. His body was alight with a different need now, a need for slick skin and gasped breaths and a body beneath his own, as consuming as the need for Ives’ blood had been. He ground his hips against Ives’, thoughtless and graceless, but enough to make Ives moan again and work his uninjured hand between their straining bodies to cup his aching cock through his trousers.

John groaned and rutted against Ives’ hand, not an ounce of grace or finesse, only raw need. His painwas a distant memory. He gripped hard at Ives’ hips, pressed his face to the crook of his neck much as Ives had done, breath coming in harsh gasps. God, he’d never been this hard, never known aching desire like this, the drag of his clothing against him was too much and not enough. There was no room for the horror of what he’d just consumed, no room for dismay that deep down he wasn’t any better than Ives. He was too hard to think beyond the immediate need for release, unable to even articulate to himself what he wanted. He’d have accepted anything in that moment: Ives’ hand on him, Ives’ mouth on him, Ives’ ass, Ives’ cock. The morality of it, of allowing himself to be intimate with a man he knew to be a monster, wasn’t anywhere in his mind; all he could think about was how badly he needed to come.

Ives seemed to sense his desperation, or perhaps knew enough desperation of his own to anticipate what John needed. He kissed John again, but briefly, and went right to his knees in the mud. Ives looked up at John, eyes black in the moonlight, and John’s breath caught in his throat. Ives grinned. He opened John’s trousers, pulled him out, and with no hesitation sucked his cock into his mouth.

John only barely clapped a hand over his mouth in time to muffle his cry of pleasure, caught too unawares to bite it back. His head tipped back as he panted, hips thoughtlessly working against Ives. Ives didn’t seem to mind at all, just moaned around John’s cock and moved with him. God, they were right out in the open, anyone who walked by would see them, he’d never live it down—John Boyd getting his cock sucked by a man he’d been so antagonistic towards—a man he’d accused of—

His cock was in a cannibal’s mouth—

Pure fear ripped through him. If Ives decided to bite down—John didn’t doubt he was more than capable of biting his cock clean off, and John knew he’d bleed out if Ives did. He’d seen a man take a bullet there during the war, an unlucky ricochet, and the poor bastard was dead in minutes.

If Ives was aware of John’s sudden terror he showed no sign of it. He sucked John’s cock with single-minded focus, seeming to take as much pleasure from having a cock in his mouth as he was giving John. It was a testament to Ives’ tongue that in spite of everything, John was still achingly hard and fast climbing towards his peak. He didn’t want to come, he needed to come, his hands were clenched in Ives’ hair and he was half-bowed over him, gasping brokenly like a man in agony but it was only the sweet agony of lust—

He was so close, knees weak and thighs trembling, if Ives moved away John would topple over right there—he heard the rustle of cloth and the distinct sound of a man fucking his own fist—Ives was jerking himself off as he sucked John’s cock and it almost broke John—

There was wet warmth against his hip and the smell of iron flooded John’s nostrils and he realized Ives’ hand had reopened as the taste of blood bloomed in memory over his tongue, and John shattered. His hand scarcely muffled his shout as he came, unconsciously thrusting his cock almost far enough into Ives’ mouth to make him choke. It consumed him utterly, a nova exploding in every cell and every facet of his awareness, obliterating any hope of coherent thought, intensity amplified by the lingering ecstasy of Ives’ blood and the whiplash adrenalin of that moment of terror. He barely remained conscious in its wake.

His knees gave out and he dropped nearly on top of Ives, just managing to miss his lap by inches. Ives piled onto him, still stroking himself, almost knocking John onto his back. John was dimly aware that Ives grabbed his chin in his injured hand and tilted his head back to kiss him hungrily, devouringly, uncaring that John hardly responded—at this point, Ives was clearly more interested in his own pleasure than John’s. John could smell the blood smeared on his chin and wished he had the presence of mind to lick it off. Ives got to it first, however; he broke the kiss to lick the blood from John’s stubble like a cat. His hand lost its rhythm and he came with a harsh sound he muffled at the crook of John’s neck. He held himself stiff for a moment, then sagged against John. Time slowed.

The wind was silent as it passed over the fort, but John could dimly hear it in the trees beyond. He could hear the horses shifting in the stable. He could hear Ives’ heart slowing from its thunderous pace as he felt his own calming. Ives was quiet against him, head tucked against John’s neck. John knew the longer they stayed, the greater the chances someone would spot them in an embrace whose intimacy could not be mistaken. But time had ceased to mean much; John’s thoughts dragged in his lassitude as if through mud. He couldn’t find outrage at what had happened, or shame, or guilt; all three would, no doubt, come later. For now, all he knew was the simple pleasure of lingering in the afterglow. If he closed his eyes, he could forget whose warmth was pressed so close, whose mouth had been on his cock, whose seed had spattered his shirt. He could pretend it was a different man, one who hadn’t killed and eaten nearly two dozen people in the span of a handful of months, one soft-spoken and articulate and gentle and remorseful of what he’d been forced to do to survive, a man who didn’t exist except as a figment of another’s imagination.

But Ives wasn’t a man to leave well enough alone.

“You see, Boyd?” he asked, still sounding a little breathless. “You see how it can be? How glorious, how good? All you have to do is—“

John shoved him off and stumbled to his feet. He stared down at Ives in the mud, suddenly horrorstruck, tasting blood in his mouth and hating with every fiber of his being that he wanted more, he wanted to rip and tear flesh between his teeth, he wanted to feel again that strength and power he remembered after eating Reich instead of constant pain and sickness and fear—an animal sound ripped from his throat and he ran.

Ives’ laughter followed him, as inescapable as the renewed pain in his leg.


End file.
